Who I am
by FFwriter2013
Summary: They say that the most dangerous men are those who have nothing to lose. So, what do you call a man who has lost his family, his friends, and his life? Damn near invincible. (First story on FF!)
1. Prologue

**Author's note: Hi guys, so this is my first time posting a story on here, so please bear with me! I'd really appreciate any advice you can give me, as long as it's helpful advice. Any idiot can post an anonymous comment saying "It sucks", but that doesn't contain an ounce of constructive criticism, does it?**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. **

They say that the most dangerous men are those who have nothing to lose. So, what do you call a man who has lost his family, his friends, and his _life_? Damn near invincible. You know, I never wrote "be a wanted criminal" as my dream career when I was a kid. I never dreamed I'd be out on the streets murdering thugs and taking names. Then again, I never thought I'd be beaten with a crowbar within an inch of my life, blown up, and brought back to life- only to dig myself out of my own grave.

When I was still young, all I thought about was getting through the day- survival. About a decade later, I guess everything has come full cycle since survival is what pumps adrenaline through my veins at night; it's what keeps me going when I lose sight of who I am. I am Jason Peter Todd, dubbed by the GCPD as a dangerous mass murderer, self-dubbed as Gotham's saving grace. Some say I'm a heartless, cold blooded killer; I say I'm cleaning up Gotham the only way possible- by throwing out the trash, permanently.

My adopted father-now-turned-adversary is part of the group that believes I need to be brought to "justice." I'm sure someone out there is laughing at the bitter irony of the situation; the _real_ murderer is off prancing around blowing up innocent people, while the victim is the one that needs to be locked up- fucking logical, right? No, I didn't think so. Am I pissed? You bet your ass I am- in fact, I've made it point to try and kill said hypocrite every time I see him. I'm sure the feeling's mutual, as proven by the scar running down my neck, courtesy of Gotham's very own Batman.

Now given this scenario, you might be thinking, "What the hell is he doing knocking on Bruce's door instead of kicking it down like our relationship?" That's exactly what I'm thinking even as I shove a picture of our "family" of bats and birds-minus the costumes-towards Bruce, demanding what the _fuck_ is happening. Oh, I guess I forgot to mention the joker card and bloody crowbar it's attached to. Because _Jesus fucking Christ, _the only person I hate more than Bruce is the Joker. And, there is no way in hell that I'll admit I may have trembled a little when Bruce silently held up three more identical souvenirs and stepped aside to let me in.

At that moment, it was easy to tell that the shit has hit the fan, especially when _goddamn Bruce_ is inviting _me_ into his home without another word. No way is this good, no fucking way. My only thought as I step through the doors I once called home after ten years and hundreds of fights? _Fuck._


	2. Chapter 1

"So are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on, or are we going to just going to sit down and have tea together?" I was pissed (okay, I always am, especially around Bruce) and I wanted answers. I never was patient, and having my own murderer send me a pretty ornament did not help to lighten up my mood.

Bruce shot me a look but otherwise, didn't react. "Yesterday, at around 9:32 PM, a purple package was dropped at the steps of Wayne Manor. There was no return address and no fingerprints. Inside the box were three crowbars, each attached to a picture and a Joker card. The inside of the box was spray painted red with the words, "It's bird hunting season, and I finally found the perfect spot." Bruce's voice was all business and completely devoid of emotion, but his body was tense and it was clear he didn't like this any more than I did. Being in the same room together without tearing apart the walls was hard enough, but add on the psychological mindfuck of a game the Joker is playing on us? The tension was so thick in the room that I swear I could empty my whole magazine into it.

"Same story here, except my crowbar was _lovely_ shade of red. How the hell did he find out our identities? How the _fuck_ can you be so careless, Bruce? You still think that what you're doing is right? Even when the Joker dances up to your _fucking doorstep_ and threatens your family, you still you don't think he's a threat that needs to be eliminated? He –

"ENOUGH, JASON!" Bruce bellowed, "We've had this conversation before. No, I don't believe in crossing that line and taking a life- I don't believe in being a murderer. I never chose the Joker over you! I've always chosen you, Jason. At least, I thought I did. I thought that by choosing good, I was choosing you and not giving in to that same murderous temptation that the Joker thrives on! Now, you go around blowing people's brains out and claim it's for justice when in reality, you're only following in _his_ footsteps. You say I turned my back on you? No, Jason, not you. I turned my back on the evil deeds the Joker stands for, but never on my son. But I _won't _cross that line. Once that line is crossed, it would be too hard to go back- you're living proof of that." His words were hard and sharp, his eyes cold.

How _dare_ he compare me to the Joker? After _everything _I've gone through? He didn't know _shit _and was so caught up in his own righteousness that he didn't _want_ to understand. I felt my heart harden at these words, and I let anger consume me. Anger was familiar, anger was normal. Raw rage constricted my throat and made my voice sound weaker than I had wanted it to, but my words were more piercing than any dagger I could throw at him.

"We're done here. You can't get over your antiquated morals and refuse to see _my way _is the only way to stop him once and for all. I don't give a damn what the Joker does to me, because there's nothing else he can take away. But _you, _I hope he takes away everything you care about, and we'll see how well you cope. You didn't care about me, but tell me, would you honestly not cross that line if he beat Damian, your own son, to a bloody pulp? If he-"

I was so caught up in the moment, so overcome with anger, that I wasn't even paying attention to Bruce. If I had, I would have noticed his eyes hardening, his fist tightening, and his punch flying towards my face. As it was, I didn't notice all this until I was on the ground clutching a bloody nose. Before I even had time to respond, Bruce slammed me against a wall and drew his fist back again- punch to the ribs, kick to the head, and another jab to the face.

I instinctively brought my knee back and kneed him in the stomach, rolling away from the constricting wall and putting space between us. This gave me room to maneuver, to think. This was normal, natural. I was used to this- ripping at eat other's throats and letting all the anger out. This allowed to me bury that tiny hint of sadness at the word _son. _ This time, I aimed at Bruce with a roundhouse kick, which he easily dodged. He swept his feet under me in an attempt to trip me, and I dodged by flipping backwards. Before both my feet even hit the ground again, Bruce had thrown two right hooks and a hard kick to my shins. I know I can't beat Bruce, I never could. I almost sank to ground right there, almost accepted defeat. Instead, one look at the bloody crowbar lying on the table beside me, and I was pumped with angry adrenaline again. I didn't need to beat Bruce, I just needed to make him _hurt. _I grabbed the crowbar and swung it fast and hard at Bruce's head with a speed that even Bruce couldn't match. I noted with grim satisfaction that the bloody crowbar that was once splattered with my blood now had Bruce's mixed into it as well. Not one to let an opportune moment pass, I swung again- neck, ribs, and knees. I finished off with a punch to his face and heard a satisfying crunch, pleased that we were now both sporting bloody noses to match the crowbar. I guess were kindred spirits after all. I raised the crowbar again- this time, Bruce's hand shot out and tossed it against the wall, leaving a hole in wall. As he stood up again, we were back where we started, waiting for the other to make a move and for all hell to break loose. I was just getting ready to have another go when I saw Bruce's shoulder's slump as he took a step back. _What? No way _was he just going to walk away after what he said to me. I angrily moved to grab his arm but with violent force, he pulled away.

"He has Damian, Jason", he said in a voice so low, I almost didn't hear him the first time and as a former Robin, I've been to trained to hear _everything_. I literally froze for a good minute before I took a step towards him. I wasn't sure what I was thinking (_You're pissed at him, remember?)_ but I guess I was going to offer –not an apology, but at least some sort of gesture- something not angry, at least.

"Don't. Get out, Jason. GET OUT!" He roared, complimenting it nicely with his signature batglare, only with triple the intensity and hatred.

I ran. I ran because this, I didn't know how to deal with. I ran because this time, I was wrong, _so wrong, _but there was no way I could apologize at that moment. In fact, there was no way I could look Bruce in the face and apologize_ ever. _So, without another word, I ran; because deep down, I know I'm just a coward_. _


	3. Chapter 2

"Ughhngh" I groaned as I tried to sit up from my couch. Where was I? Oh right, passed out in my apartment after a long night at the bar. I didn't remember anything from last night, but the splitting headache that was currently stabbing my brain seemed to be a good indication I was out drinking last night. It wasn't unusual for me to find myself waking up and not having a clue where I was; getting drunk was my way of coping when my emotions hit me with the force of a twelve ton truck. I lit a cigarette to try and clear my head, taking deep breaths and trying to see through the foggy haze of my hangover. I'd barely had five minutes to regain my senses when there was a loud knock on my door. Head pounding, I prayed to god it wasn't anyone from the bat clan. I'd recently just rented this apartment three weeks ago and just finished packing; it'd be a pain in the ass to have to set everything up again.

"Jay! Let me in! We need to talk!"

_Fuck_, of course it was Dick. Just my luck. I was debating whether I show throw my dagger towards the door or just shoot him as came in. _I think I'll do both, _I thought, grabbing my gun and my knife. "Fuck off Dick! You've got three seconds before I get the door and put a bullet in your head for ruining my hangover!"

CRASH! _Goddamn it! _Note to self, don't put the coffee table in front of the couch unless you want to add on a concussion to a killer hangover. _Jesus fucking Christ_, who knew coffee tables could hurt that much? I could already imagine the headlines tomorrow: 'The infamous Red Hood finally taken down- by a coffee table!'

Dick, being Dick, helped himself inside. He offered me a hand, which I swatted away.

"The fuck do you want, Dick?"

"Look Jay, we need to talk about the Joker situation. I know what happened with Bruce, and frankly, I can't believe you. I figured I'd come here and ask you one last time- if not as brother, then at least as an ally- to help us find Damian. We're the only family you have Jay, whether you want to admit it or not." Dick said, his eyes full of firm determination.

"I don't _give a damn_ what happens to the demon brat- or anyone else associated with my _ex-_family. In fact-"

"Jesus Jay! Would you pull your head out of your ass for once?! This isn't about you, or me, or even Bruce! Damian is still a kid, Jason; he's only ten! Robin or not, he's still a child! Would you really let another kid go through the same thing you did? You'd let your pride get in the way of an innocent life?"

Damn Dick, always knowing what words to say to make feel guilty as shit, as if I wasn't on the edge already. He's right though, and I know inside that I won't be able to stop myself from helping. Whatever my personal issues, the demon brat _is_ just a kid, and I'll be damned if anyone else from this family- _ex_ family- dies at the hands of the Joker. However, I'm certain there's no way I'll be able to work with them. If I help, I work alone and keep direct contact to a minimum-

"Please Jay, work with us. Work with _me._" Dick pleaded, with those _damn_ puppy dog eyes that makes me want to knee him in the gut.

Before I even have time to retort, he turns on his heels and is out the door. He knows I won't say yes if he's there. He knows that I won't admit how deep down, this is what I want _so, so much_. So much for working alone; I know I can't refuse Dick after that guilt trip he put me through. Yet, I'm not ready. Not yet; I'm not prepared to jump back into _that_ life, with _those _people, even under such extreme circumstances. Grabbing my jacket and hood, I head out the door. I can't just stride into the batcave and sit down at their computers as if nothing ever happened. I need to do this part on my own. I'll do my own questioning,_ my own way_. But when it comes down to the actual fight and rescue, I know I'll be fighting on their side- _our_ side.

For the next three days, I stay up later than usual and round up a record number of thugs. Dick hasn't contacted me again; he's giving me space because he knows if he pushes just a little too hard, I'll run again. I steer clear of the bat clan but for some reason, none of the bullet wounds have been fatal lately. But there _have_ been bullet wounds, many in fact. I've been out questioning every scumbag I know (and trust me, there's a fucking lot) and I'm still not any closer to finding out where Damian is being held.

Even so, I won't admit the countless hours I've dedicated specifically to trying to locate the demon child because _dammit_, I am not a sap. I won't let a kid get hurt, sure. But I also won't be guilt ridden over my sort of brother and sort of enemy. So no, it was _not_ the nagging guilt that drove me to my tireless research and _no _I definitely didn't still keep that picture of my family tucked away in my leather jacket because I repeat, the Red Hood is _not_ a sap. On the third day, finally, finally, (after hours of throttling and countless bullets), I've found someone willing to talk and find out which warehouse Joker has Robin. I send Dick a text saying Warehouse Thirteen and leave. I'm still not sure why I'm helping out but hey, I don't really know why I've been doing half the things I've been doing lately ever since that crowbar showed up. I really need to get my emotions in check, before I start turning into Dick or something. I think I'd shoot myself before that happens.

**Author's note:**

**I'm really happy I've been keeping up and updating a chapter a day, but this next chapter might take a couple of days instead. Thanks so much for the follows, faves, and reviews! I appreciate it all so much. **


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